


Baby Steps

by komodobits



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kieren being a sad sad bab, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, alcohol use, this fic depicts Rick in a way that is not mean but not necessarily sympathetic either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2205174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komodobits/pseuds/komodobits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kieren's death was six years ago today, and when he can't sleep, he goes over to the bungalow. Honestly, he still doesn't know whether he should have come back at all - but if he's sure of anything, he's sure of Simon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps

It’s quarter past three when Kieren accepts that if he hasn’t managed to get to sleep by this point, he isn’t going to. He gets out of bed and pulls his boots on. There is the light staccato of rain on his window-panes; he grabs his coat.

The street outside is dark and cool, one lamplight flickering half-heartedly beneath tangled twists of cloud, and Kieren feels cleaner in the rain. He has been exerting a lot of effort into not thinking about the anniversary, but in his house it’s hard to ignore. With every day that it loomed closer, his dad would get slightly more tight-lipped, his mum keeping busy with the speed and domestic efficiency of a localised hurricane. He hasn’t seen much of Jem this week, either. At the moment, Kieren’s every breath feels like a wrecking ball through the living room, and his resurrection currently seems like a poor apology for everything he’s done to them. Sometimes, trying to integrate into the mundane, everyday things that he’s no longer a part of – putting the kettle on to boil; Jem in a fight, going for his sides with sharp fingers to tickle and pinch until he comes apart, except that he can barely feel her touch; the ridiculous knife-and-fork farce at dinner-time – he feels that he shouldn’t have come back at all.

Kieren doesn’t set off with a destination in mind, but he is not surprised to find himself on the doorstep of the bungalow. The hall light is still on, but the bedrooms are dark. He’s here so often that Simon has taken to leaving a key for him under a pot of lacklustre geraniums, and so he lets himself in. Simon’s door is the first on the left.

For several moments Kieren just stands there by the door, in the dark, with the strange sense of being a very unenthused burglar. He runs a hand over his hair, smoothes down the front of his shirt underneath his coat. He tells himself that Simon won’t throw him out, that he’s always welcome in Simon’s arms, that Simon won’t mind. Simon will be pleased to see him. He tells himself again. He swallows past the hard lump of self-doubt in his throat, and he knocks.

From inside comes a sleepy, disorganised noise that falls somewhere between _hmm_ and _what is it_. Kieren pushes the door open, and hesitates for a moment in the doorway. He must make a sorry figure, in his rain-damp clothes, silhouetted by the lamp in the hallway. He doesn’t even have his contacts in. “Can I come in?” he asks quietly.

Mattress springs squeak; there is a rustle of fabric in the dark. “Kieren?”

He shuts the door. Peels out of his coat, kicks off his boots, down to his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. And then, without saying another word, Kieren picks his way carefully through the unfamiliar gloom of Simon’s room to crawl into his bed.

Simon turns over to face him – Kieren can see the outline of pale body in the thin stripes of moonlight through the curtain – and as Kieren climbs in, Simon says his name again, more softly. Like a question, or a plea. He breathes it out like it’s sacred.

Kieren doesn’t answer. He just lies down in the narrow space next to Simon, curls his hands against his chest so that he can’t see his wrists every time he opens his eyes, and presses his face into Simon’s shoulder.

Thankfully, Simon doesn’t push it – why he’s here, or what’s wrong, or why he won’t speak. He just gives a soft exhalation and presses his mouth and nose into the top of Kieren’s head.

In this house, everything seems more settled. There is none of the bone-deep tension of an entire family unanimously in agreement to pretend that everything is fine this week. Kieren doesn’t even think that Simon knows about the anniversary. If he just goes on like it’s any other day, and tries hard to lift off the aching heaviness all through his body, tomorrow could be normal. Today. Kieren recalls that it’s three A.M.

By seven tonight, six years ago, he was dead.

 

* * *

 

 

_Kieren wakes from a dream with fractured edges, and when he is not too groggy to think, his first thought is that his parents are going to kill him. Or not kill him, rather. And Jem – shit._

_He looks up at a ceiling that is painted in calculatedly neutral colours, and tries to summon the courage to check his arms. He isn’t brave enough. He thought he was brave, with half a bottle of rum inside him, but maybe it just goes to show how fucked everything is. He thought he’d done it right; didn’t think he’d get fucking sectioned._

_Everything is strangely numb, like he’s somehow disconnected from his body. He can’t feel his body, and for a moment he wonders if he’s somehow done some permanent damage, paralysed himself or something, but at a glance, he can see his feet shift. He’s not entirely destroyed himself, then. Kieren doesn’t know whether or not to be happy about this fact._

_His arms are strapped down, which he supposes is a necessary precaution, although he does think that the ankle straps might have been a bit extreme. Then again, the room does have a window. Better safe than sorry. He considers it, but he isn’t interested. He’s too heavy, too tired. He lies back with his bones like lead and tries very hard not to think._

_With his closed, he recalls that there was an edge of violence to the dream. Hunting, being hunted. Blood on his hands._

_Kieren opens his eyes. He doesn’t need dreams about blood on his hands. With a perverse kind of interest, he wonders how much he lost – how far gone he was, how hard it was to get him back._

_Then there is the sound of a doorknob turning, and Kieren turns his head, shuts his eyes. If he pretends to be asleep, he can gauge whether his mum is angry-upset or just plain old upset, because he doesn’t have the energy to watch his mother cry. He doesn’t have the energy to see anyone. He has no energy for anything, and he wishes he’d been braver. Done it right._

_After a moment, he realises that whoever has come in, it’s not someone he knows – there’s no crying or swearing or distraught muttering_ _\- and so he lifts his head. There is a nurse at the foot of his bed, arranging a syringe with contents a menacingly vibrant shade of blue._

_“Good morning, chicken,” she says, as she sees that he’s awake. “How are you feeling?”_

_Kieren stares at her. “Great,” he says._

_She gives him a big smile, all white teeth and crows’ feet crinkling. “That’s good – a lot of people feel really awful when they first come around,” she tells him, almost conspiratorially._

_“Oh, do they.”_

_If the nurse notices Kieren’s sarcasm, she gives no indication of it, but instead continues to busy herself with her syringe. As he works, she talks. “Now, I understand you must be very confused, so I’ll just quickly catch you up to speed, but a doctor should be around to give you a more in-depth explanation and to answer any queries you may have about your condition. The short version is that I’m afraid you’ve been diagnosed with Partially Deceased Syndrome, but you have been treated now, and if you remain on the medication that we’re giving you, everything should be very manageable.”_

_“Partially Deceased Syndrome,” Kieren repeats._

_“That’s it – so you_ were _temporarily deceased, but as of now you’re—”_

_Kieren’s eyes fall to the syringe in her hands with some concern. “Sorry, are you actually a nurse, or are you in here with me?”_

_She looks up at him. “Excuse me?”_

_“And I’m sorry, but – where’s my family? Do they know I’m…” Kieren trails off. He can’t decide what word to go for next – awake or alive._

_The nurse gives him a sympathetic look, her mouth twisting ruefully. “They do, but you won’t be able to see them, I’m afraid. You see, typically, family members aren’t allowed to see PDS sufferers until they’re well on their way through the rehabilitation programme – not long, it’s only a few years, so—”_

_Kieren lets out a short burst of air like a laugh, except this isn’t funny. He can’t believe this is happening to him. “Rehabilitation? Rehab— Look, I don’t need rehab. I’m not mental, I just—” Kieren lets the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. He can’t even begin to find an appropriate way to express himself._ I just wish I was dead _. He has all his breath pent up in his chest, and he lets it all out, like he’s deflating._

_He just looks at his nurse, his expression broken, and he wishes he had the words to explain everything. He wishes he could just tell her the truth – that he loved a boy, and he lost that boy, and nothing meant anything because even when he still had Rick, his mouth always tasted like alcohol and tobacco and the need to pretending he was kissing someone else, and that he couldn’t go on making as though everything was just fine when he knew that he wasn’t good enough. Was never going to be good enough. He can’t say this out loud, though. He never could. No-one wanted to hear it._

_The nurse’s face seems softer now, somehow, and she lowers her syringe. “I am sorry,” she says, “but really, we can’t legally release you until you’ve passed our tests and been declared safe.”_

_Kieren’s heart sinks. He doesn’t say anything._

_The nurse unbuckles his straps – feet first, then arms – and Kieren finds the urge to rub his wrists where the fabric was digging in. He doesn’t what to feel what he’s done._

_“Now, if you wouldn’t mind just leaning forwards quickly for me, I’ve to administer your daily dose of a drug called Neurotryptalin.” The nurse crosses towards him, tapping her fingertips on the glass canister attached to the back of her syringe.  “It shouldn’t hurt much…”_

_Numbly, Kieren does as he’s told. He sets a blank stare on the wall opposite while the nurse pulls down the collar of his shirt at the back, and then there is a sharp digging sensation, and—_

His eyes are open, and he is hungry.

There is nothing else. The space he is in, the narrow walls, the pressure above him. He thrashes, and he fills the air, cracks against the walls. Again, and again, until the splintering sound and the crash of dirt, filling his open, screaming mouth.

He is crushed and he is suffocated, a small thing under the heavy hands of the earth, and then he is writhing through it.

_Kieren comes around convulsing violently, the nurse’s hands gentle on his forehead to keep him from thrashing off the bed, and then he is clutching at her arms. He gasps out loud and there are rough sobs tearing from his throat – “I can’t, I can’t”, with the weight of the dirt upon him, in his mouth and eyes – and he’s spasming blind until slowly, slowly, he shudders into stillness._

_When his eyes and mind are clear, he finds himself still clinging onto the nurse while she rubs soothing circles between his shoulder-blades. He struggles to breathe. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”_

_“It’s alright, happens to most PDS sufferers when they first respond to treatment,” the nurse tells him. “The earliest memories usually come back first, so you were probably—”_

_“Buried alive,” Kieren bursts out, still shaking. “I can’t have, but I was – it was like I was buried alive, I was—”_

_“Not alive, sweetheart,” the nurse says delicately._

_Kieren’s mouth answers to respond - and then he catches a glimpse of his arms where they clutch at his nurse. With the insides of his wrists turned towards him, it’s clearly visible what he has done – two long vertical slits on his wrists, each about two inches long. Stitches looped across them, pulling the mess crudely back together. What he isn’t prepared for is the way the flesh around the injuries have gone grey, limp – and the stitches aren’t even tight. He’s seen enough episodes of his mum’s old detective shows to know necrotic flesh when he sees it._

_“You said I was diagnosed with…” Kieren starts, his voice faint. He cannot take his eyes from his wrists._

_“Partially Deceased Syndrome.” The nurse carefully extracts herself from Kieren’s clinging hands and stands up. “According to your record, death was March 22 nd, 2009. There’s a mirror for you here – we often find that visual evidence helps PDS sufferers to accept—”_

_The nurse goes on speaking as she moves across the room in search of a mirror, but Kieren isn’t listening. Date of death: March 22 nd, 2009. Kieren tried to kill himself that day. He can’t have actually… succeeded. Of course, he was expecting to succeed – that was the point – but he wasn’t expecting to then be waking up in a hospital being told—_

_“Here you are, chicken.”_

_This is impossible. This isn’t happening. Any moment now his mum and dad will come in, Jem behind them probably furious, and they’ll cry and they’ll crush him to them in a hug and they’ll said_ how could you, how could you _or something like that. They’ll tell him off and then they’ll say they love him, and Kieren will have to make eye contact with them and deal with the fact that now everyone he knows will be aware that he wants to be dead – and he’ll feel terrible and he’ll still wish that he was dead, but he’s supposes that’s just something he’ll have to deal with._

_Kieren takes the mirror from the nurse, and he looks at his reflection._

 

* * *

 

 

Simon is asleep, his breath faint and soft across Kieren’s hair, and Kieren is awake with the old familiar thought that things were better when he was six feet under.

Idly, he weighs the pros and cons in his head. He wouldn’t have eaten anyone, for one thing. But he wouldn’t have met Amy. He wouldn’t have traumatised Jem. But Jem would still hate him for leaving. He wouldn’t have had to deal with losing Rick a second time. Then again, if he hadn’t come back, Rick wouldn’t have been killed in the first place. He could have happily gone on with his dickhead dad for the rest of his days until Bill Macy copped it himself, and Kieren wouldn’t have been there to interfere and fuck everything up. As usual. Kieren inhales shakily, holds it for two, three.

He sees the limp sprawl of Rick’s legs on the concrete, the nod of his head onto his chest.

Kieren counts under his breath. One, two, three. He breathes. His hands are trembling; he balls them into tight fists against Simon’s chest until he is steady. Then, slowly, he uncurls his fists, spreads his fingers across Simon’s collarbone. He brushes his thumb lightly into the dip of his clavicle. If he was still dead, he wouldn’t have met Simon Monroe. Simon, who makes him happier than he’s been in a long time. With his broad shoulders and his long hands, his gentle mouth. The soft edges of his accent, Kieren’s name safe in his mouth like Kieren has never felt quite safe anywhere else.

Simon is fast asleep, it seems, so in spite of his uncertainty – he’s getting too close, he’s moving too fast, Simon doesn’t want him like this – Kieren wriggles in closer. He slips his hand up from Simon’s collarbone to cup the side of his neck, and he lies there beside him, close enough that if he tilts his head, their noses would bump. His hesitation and fear flutters inside him where his pulse should be.

 

* * *

 

 

_His hands burst clear, fingers grasping blindly at the air. He twists and he pulls himself up, and then he is free._

_He hauls himself out of the dirt, cramped muscles in disrepair, stretching. His hands are claws, his open mouth dry and rotting. There is the open expanse of the night and he can almost taste the fresh, wriggling bodies, the succulent flesh tucked away in safe houses. They think they are safe, but he is here and he is hungry._

_A clock chime. The open night. A long, shrill scream._

_Footsteps, retreating fast along the dark length of road. He catches up. Another one is there with him, long hair swinging as she grapples with the meat, snaps it, throws it down._

_Skull cracking on concrete. The wet burst of the softer parts. He is on his knees, and there is nothing but the sweet slide of it down his throat, over his chin, dripping from his hands as he eats greedy mouthfuls. It’s a hot, invigorating rush all through his body. He has been nothing for so long, and now he is hungry, quaking with the fizz and burn of it under his skin._

_He and the other one share. She is messy, her open mouth gasping in incoherent, high-flying delight between every ragged shred of meat, but there is enough for both of them. And there will be always be more bodies._

 

* * *

 

 

Kieren jerks awake, all the air ripped out of his lungs in a gasp that makes a rough noise of blind panic. He can’t breathe and he’s huddled back against the headboard before he knows what’s happening and he is fighting to understand where he is. There are flashes of memory, disorganised – he came over to see Simon – he climbed into bed with him – he tore the flesh from a woman in the street, cracked her head against the pavement and ripped, tore – the taste of blood in his mouth. He came to see Simon. He put his boots and coat on in the middle of the nigh and came down to crawl into Simon’s bed.

Chest heaving, arms spread to grip either side of the bed-frame hard enough that his knuckles cramp,  Kieren slowly comes back to himself, and he realises that he’s shaking.

He lowers his arms. He takes a moment just to breathe, and he pushes his hair back from his face. He doesn’t come out of his corner, though; he just pulls his knees up to his chest, bringing the blanket with him, and he huddles in the corner fighting down the panic.

Just as he feels himself evening out, there comes a scuffle from the other side of the door, and then it opens to reveal Simon, already dressed and balancing a tray in his arms.

“Simon?” Kieren manages, swallowing down the last of his fear. “What’re you—”

“Breakfast in bed, of course,” Simon says, with that shallow twist of a smile which means he thinks he’s being funny, which is only slightly endearing.

Kieren lets his breath out, and a frown creases down between his eyebrows as he tries to think of the best way to remind Simon that neither of them are capable of eating. “Er, Simon—” he starts, but before he can get any words out, Simon plops a hideous tray patterned with flowers down in front of him, and Kieren realises that the plates are laden with plastic food reminiscent of nursery school.

As Kieren picks up a perfectly-shaped slice of plastic bacon between thumb and forefinger – carefully, like it might attack him – he looks up to see Simon’s smile stretching wider.

“Plastic,” Kieren says, and he just looks at Simon’s face, in all its delight and earnest affection, and he thinks that he looks luminous.

“I know, it’s daft,” Simon admits, tilting his head towards the tray as though even he isn’t even entirely sure what’s going on there. “Wasn’t even my idea. I just wanted to do something that normal couples do, y’know, to mark special occasions, so – breakfast in bed.” Simon shrugs, presses his lips together. “I know, it’s daft, but …I thought it might be nice.”

Kieren nods along, trying his hardest not to smile. “Very thoughtful, Simon, thank you. Though… what’s it for?”

Simon frowns. “I thought…” he glances back towards the door, as though he’s searching for someone behind him to help him with the question. He looks back towards Kieren with uncertainty. “Today’s the day you died, isn’t it?”

Slowly, Kieren raises his head. Lifts his chin. He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, at last. “It is.” He looks away out of the window.

Simon registers immediately that something isn’t right. “What is it?” he says, concern creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”

Kieren doesn’t look at him. “Nothing, I just…” He drops his eyes and instead becomes very interested in twisting his hands together where they come together over his legs. “I hadn’t realised that teen suicide ranked so highly on your list of celebration-worthy achievements,” he says, off-hand.

Simon sits down on the bed beside Kieren’s pulled-up knees – knocking plastic eggs and a coffee cup onto the ground in the process – and reaches a hand up to cup Kieren’s jaw, thumb smoothing the line between ear and cheekbone. “Kieren,” he says, his voice soft, “you know that you’re so much more than what you did.”

Kieren rolls his eyes. “Am I?” he mutters. “It seems to be something of a defining moment.”

“Well, I won’t pretend that it isn’t – it’s changed everything, but… for the better, Kieren.”

“What, because now I’m undead forever and one mis-dose away from killing my family like I—” Kieren cuts himself off. He doesn’t go further, but he huffs out his breath and gives Simon a sharp look, eyebrows lifted. He doesn’t think he needs to clarify.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Simon says, and his hand shifts, pushes Kieren’s hair behind ear.

Kieren doesn’t know what comes over him, but he pulls away from the touch. He doesn’t laugh, although he feels the urge to do so bubbling in throat. He lets his breath out in one long, steadying sigh, and he wriggles out of the blankets past Simon. “Then whose fault is it?” he asks tiredly, and he knows full well that Simon doesn’t have an answer for that.

He feels Simon’s eyes on him as he squirms his bare feet into his boots, and he knows that Simon is only trying to be kind, but at the moment it feels like a knife. He gets one arm into his coat before Simon says, “Where are you going?” in a subdued voice like he thinks Kieren is never going to come back.

“Home,” Kieren says, and he shrugs his other arm into its sleeve. “I overslept. I need to get back before… I dunno, before my parents start thinking I’ve made a second go of it.”

Now fully dressed, he turns back to Simon, sees him still sat on the edge of the bed and watching Kieren leave. His face is forlorn, slightly lost, although he gives a small nod. Kieren has hurt his feelings, he can tell, and a part of him sinks low with the knowledge that here he is again, breaking in gently and leaving a wake like a freight train.

Kieren crosses the room, back to Simon, and he says, “Thanks for breakfast, m’love” – meaning it teasingly, the way his mum says it when his dad is being hopeless but has at least made a real effort, but somehow it comes out more sincere than that. Kieren ducks his head to kiss Simon quickly.

Simon lifts a hand, and curls it around the back of Kieren’s neck to anchor him there a moment longer, and his mouth is soft. Then Kieren stands up straight, and Simon lets his hand fall.

“I’ll see you later,” Kieren says.

Simon neatens the front of Kieren’s coat. “Okay.”

Kieren turns to leave, and is just opening the door to the hall when Simon calls, “Wait—” and Kieren turns in time to see something flying at his face. He fumbles, but does catch it: Simon’s tub of cover-up mousse.

He gives a start, having forgotten that he wasn’t wearing it when he came over, and for a moment he is nearly overwhelmed by a childish urge to run out now, as quickly as possible, with his hands over his face, so that Simon might not have to see his bleached eyes, his mottled skin. Kieren swallows it down, and says thank you instead.

Simon doesn’t mind, he tells himself. Simon likes him and wouldn’t care what he looked like. He tells himself again.

He leaves the room to slick the mousse on in the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

_The old blue towel is in position, carefully draped over the mirror, and the lights are all out, leaving no illumination but the last greyish light of sunset through the window. It’s not entirely dark enough for Kieren, but it’ll do._

_He runs the tap, and as the pipes gurgle to warm the water, he picks the contact lenses out of his eyes. It stings, and he can scarcely see to put them back in their case, but after that point it’s easy; it doesn’t require a great deal of effort or focus to wipe off the rest of what makes him normal._

_Kieren dips the corner of a grubby flannel into the water, rubs it across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. He watches the thick beige cream rinse off under the water and imagines distractedly that this is him coming apart._

_He ducks to rinse his face, and then the bathroom door clatters open._

_Kieren turns, startled, and there is Jem – her pyjamas sweat-dark, hair damp, with a red face and a sob on her lips – and then she sees him, standing in the dark all grey and exposed like the waiting monster she still has nightmares about, and she reels back with a short scream._

_She hits the doorframe, slips down almost to sitting on the floor, and as fast as Kieren away to hide from her, hands up like surrender and gasping, “Shit, Jem, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” it’s not enough. She chokes out sobs like she’s been stabbed and she stumbles desperately to her feet, and then she’s gone back down the hall without another word. Kieren can still hear her crying long after her bedroom door is shut._

_Slowly, Kieren turns back towards the open doorway. Then, with cautious hands, he lifts the towel off the mirror and he looks._

 

* * *

 

 

Kieren tries to sneak into the house without being noticed; he does not succeed. His mum and dad are sat at the breakfast table, and all eyes are on him the instant he slips in through the side door. He stalls, stands awkwardly in front of the door, and looks between his parents. “Morning,” he says, as though it’s totally normal that he should be coming into the house in his pyjamas at 8 A.M.

Sue just raises her eyebrows and says, “Morning, Kieren.”

“Where’ve you been, then?” Steve asks, a spoon weighed down with cornflakes paused halfway to his mouth.

Kieren sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat and glances longingly towards the stairs.

“Just went over to the bungalow,” he says, and he thinks that maybe if maintains eye contact and gives no indication of being aware that he’s in his pyjamas, his parents won’t know that he stayed over with Simon.

Steve looks at Sue. Kieren tries a tight-lipped smile.

There is a long, awkward silence, while Steve and Sue and Kieren all look at each other with varying degrees of polite uncertainty on their faces. They want to check that he’s okay – that he’s not going to throw himself under a bus or anything – but can’t find the words to ask.

“It’s nice out,” Kieren says, as an attempt to express that he’s alright without saying as much. He hesitantly approaches the kitchen table.

“Looks quite warm, yeah,” Steve agrees, with an emphatic nod that slops some of his cornflakes off his spoon and into his bowl. He looks down at the bowl, startled.

“Might go for a walk later,” Kieren tries.

Sue looks up, eyes wide.

For God’s sake. “Not to the woods,” Kieren says pointedly, as he decides that there’s no point skimming neatly around the topic anymore. “I was thinking more, into town, maybe? But thank you for your faith in me.”

Thankfully, any weirdness that might have followed that declaration is interrupted by the loud arrival of Jem in heavy boots, with music so loud in her headphones that the sharp, tinny beats of it can be distinctly heard. She enters, stops short in the living room, and her eyes trace Kieren up and down. “That the style now?”

All eyes are drawn to Kieren’s slightly damp pyjamas underneath his coat, and that is the point at which he decides it’s time to go upstairs.

He walks up, shuts the door behind him, and makes an effort not to think too much about the way his parents are stretched near to breaking point with the stress of expecting – what? Kieren doesn’t know what they expect. To come upstairs and find him collapsed and bloody, maybe. Or with ten packs of pills in his hands. Out of a morbid curiosity, Kieren wonders whether an overdose would even do anything to him now.

Kieren stands in front of his door, hands in his pockets, and he looks over his bedroom as though he’s never seen it before. His crumpled blanket, exactly where he left it; the neat rows of books that he keeps telling himself he’ll read but has never got around to; the half-finished sketches scattered across his desk; the old paintings. He tilts his head and looks at Rick – portrait after portrait, in different palettes and with different brushes, but otherwise, mostly the same. Rick smiling, Rick looking away from Kieren, Rick with his attention on something in the distance.

He sits on the edge of his bed. He stares across the room at Rick’s painted features, done out in smooth, loving paint-brush strokes, like the canvas was the only place where Kieren could touch Rick the way he wanted to.

Sometimes, he goes several days without thinking of Rick, and it’s a kind of blissful oblivion. He wakes up in the morning and goes about his life – he talks to Jem, he watches telly with his dad, he sees Simon – and not once does Rick burst into his head like a malevolent ghost to drum around inside his skull, _it’s your fault, it’s your fault._ He kisses Simon without the sour taste of his guilt in his mouth. He walks into town without reliving a hundred old walks with Rick, where they’d chat about school, what was going on with their friends, where Rick would talk about girls and Kieren would talk about art, like they were parallel lines forever side-by-side by never overlapping into each other’s world.

Other times, it’s not so easy.

Rick is a weight that he carries on his back everywhere he goes, and he’s particularly heavy today. There he is in Kieren’s head, with his laughing eyes and his hard mouth, and there is the fumbling touch of his hand after four beers and a promise that Kieren wouldn’t ever mention it to anyone; there is Kieren’s slow movements, as though trying not to startle a wounded animal into flight, the gentle press of his mouth and the sharp taste of alcohol when Rick breathed into him. There is the last argument. The last goodbye. The phone-call to the Macy house, picked up by Bill, and being brusquely told that Rick was already gone. There is the funeral.

Kieren closes his eyes.

And then he got a second chance and he fucked that up too. He tried to interfere again, he pushed Rick when he wasn’t comfortable, he stood between Bill and Rick when he knew that it was the only place he couldn’t go – and then… he fucked it up. Fucked it up the way he always, always fucks things up, because Kieren Walker makes a hobby of taking nice things and smashing them to pieces.

Kieren stands up, surges across the room, and before he knows what he’s doing, he is ripping his paintings off Rick off the wall.

He yanks them off their hooks and tosses them behind him, onto his bed – one after another, every smiling image of Rick Macy, every candid – and once they are all down, he gathers them up in his arms, and he crosses to shove them into the bottom of his wardrobe. There they sit in a disorganised heap, underneath all the old clothes that made him stand out in the first place as the little weirdo that Bill didn’t like his son hanging around with - the jackets and the jeans that shouted out _queer_ even before he did. He slams the wardrobe door on all of it.

 

* * *

 

 

_Bright lights pour out of the Legion’s windows, and from inside there is the sound of raucous laughter and loud, obnoxious banter. Kieren can hear Rick’s dad, and all of his terrible friends. He drops back, a few steps behind Rick, and with his feet dragging, he tries to summon the strength to go in with Rick._

_It doesn’t have to be so bad. If he buys a packet of crisps, he can get a beer like everyone else, and he doesn’t have to enjoy it, but at least no-one will laugh at him. He can feign deaf ears to the jokes and the snide comments, and if he buttons up his coat, no-one has to see his weird clothes. He thinks, with regret, that Rick did tell him he looked like a bit of a tosser in this shirt, and now he wishes he could take it off and set fire to it. He can keep his coat and he can sip at his disgusting beer and he can try to follow a conversation about the football, and Rick will look after him a bit. And then, who knows, maybe afterwards Rick will be feeling looser with the beer, more confident, and they can kiss in the dark before Kieren goes home. One kiss._

_Kieren takes a deep breath and follows Rick. However, as they come up the path, and the sounds of the pub get louder, he can feel his pulse fluttering wildly out of control. He feels unsteady, wobbly on his feet, and no matter how tightly he clenches his hands into fists, he cannot even himself out._

_There is an itch of panic all under his skin that builds and builds with every step he takes, until he is right by the door and he can feel his breath coming short, and he bursts out, “I’m not gonna come in, Rick.”_

_Rick turns around, bewildered. “What’re you on about?”_

_Kieren tries a nonchalant shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Quite tired, actually, that’s all – I might come some other time, but—”_

_“What?” Rick’s voice is all exasperation. It doesn’t make Kieren feel better. “Ren, come on, don’t be a dickhead, it’ll be—”_

_“I’m not being a dickhead, I’m just_ tired, _” Kieren says obstinately, a scowl coming across his face before he can help it. “I didn’t know it was against the law to be tired all of a sudden.”_

_Rick lets out a harsh breath. “Fuck’s sake, you’re not tired, Ren, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Now come on, I swear, it’ll be fine.”_

_“They don’t want me in there, you know that!” Kieren says, and he takes a step back out of reflex. His stomach is churning just at the thought of it – he can feel his mum’s lasagne pitching violently inside him, and for a moment he really does think he’s going to vomit at Rick’s feet. “They’ll be laughing at me, they’ll treating me like… like I’m some kind of freak, Rick, you know they will.”_

_Rick’s expression softens slightly. “I’ll talk to m’dad, okay? I swear. I’ll tell him to stop being such a twat, I’ll tell him...”_

_“What?” Kieren challenges, his voice coming out rougher and more bitter than he intends. “That you’re—”_

_“Kieren,” Rick cuts across him sharply. He looks back into the Legion with fearful eyes to see if there’s anyone around who might overhear them._

_“What does it matter if they hear you?” Kieren says dully. “Thought you said you were going to tell them.”_

_“I wasn’t gonna tell him_ that _!”_

_Kieren thinks to himself that it’s the only thing worth telling Bill Macy. It’s the only thing Rick needs to do to let him and Kieren be happy, so why can’t he just do it – either that, or give up? Rick is Kieren’s best friend, but sometimes, days like today, Kieren almost hates him for this – for giving him hope, making him think that one day everything will get sorted out and they’ll be alright together. He doesn’t say any of this; he just looks at his feet._

_“You’re meant to stand up for me,” he mumbles, after a beat._

_Rick swears under his breath, glances towards the open door the Legion again. “Jesus, Ren, I do, just—”_

_“Yeah, when no-one’s listening. Or when no-one’s around, or - or when you can’t sleep. Not when it counts.”_

_“I’ll fix this, Kieren.”_

_Kieren just shrugs. He doesn’t look at Rick, trying his hardest not to get his hopes up again. He’s not sure how many more times he can keep doing this. He kicks a toe back and forth across the ground. “Okay.”_

_“Ren.”_

_“Say hi to your dad for me,” Kieren says, as a sort of pointed gesture – he knows that in all likelihood, Rick will be very quiet about having even seen Kieren today. Rick likes to avoid conflict with his dad, which means that for the most part he just doesn’t talk about that might give Bill reason to flare up. Kieren doesn’t think Rick has said Kieren’s name aloud in his dad’s presence for years. He looks up with a small, forced smile, sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and then he turns away to head back down the street._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Rick calls after him._

_Kieren looks back over his shoulder._

_“Mum’s got me FIFA for a well-done on exams,” Rick goes on, awkwardly. “We could try it out?”_

_“I’m not allowed in your house, Rick.”_

_Rick’s mouth twists; he’d forgotten. Rick always forgets the hundred-and-one rules and boundaries set up around Kieren – not allowed in the Macy house, not allowed to ring when Bill’s home, not allowed in the Legion, better if he doesn’t come to football matches, probably not a good idea for him to acknowledge the Macy family in public if he doesn’t want to get ridiculed; the list goes on. Rick lets Kieren get on with remembering all the rules._

_“I could bring it to yours?” Rick tries._

_Kieren just looks at him for a second. One of these days, he wants to say no. He wants to say that he’s tired of being best mates with someone who’s ashamed of him, who won’t stick up for him to his own family. He’s tired of Rick letting him kiss him in the dark, with cider on their mouths, only to pretend it never happened as soon as the lights come on. One of these days, he will say no, he will – but the thought of not seeing Rick twists in his stomach like a sharp blade. They don’t have to be in love with each other, he supposes; they can just laugh at old sitcoms and talk shit about people in the village, like always, and being in each other’s company will be enough._

_“Okay,” Kieren says, at last. He hates FIFA, but he’ll take it if it means Rick comes over, living for a few hours in a space where Kieren doesn’t have to check his every move in case someone sees him acting like a queer. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”_

_Rick smiles wide and sunny, and Kieren turns away from the sight of it before he falls in love with him all over again._

 

* * *

 

 

There comes a knock on the door. “Kier? Can I come in?”

With a monumental effort, Kieren drags himself up from where he is slumped low at his desk chair. He sets down the pencil he was idly playing with, uninspired, and turns in his seat to face the door. “Yeah, I’m decent.”

The door creaks open and Jem pops her head in, as though she’s still concerned that he might be sprawled naked on the floor or something. Then she follows through, shuts the door lightly behind her, and stands for a second looking around his room. Her eyes fall on the blank spaces left behind by the paintings of Rick, but she doesn’t comment.

“Y’alright?” she asks.

Kieren lifts his shoulders helplessly.

“They’re being weird, aren’t they,” Jem says, matter-of-fact like she already knows.

“Can’t exactly blame them.”

Jem pulls a face. As she takes slow steps around his room, fingers trailing over CD cases and boxes of art supplies, she says, “They’ll get used to it. I’m trying to think of it like… you went on holiday for a bit. And then you came back, so it doesn’t really matter… as much.”

 _As much._ It still matters. Still hurts. Kieren is grateful for the effort of Jem’s acceptance, anyway. “And it was a shit holiday, so.”

Jem smiles, but there is sadness at its edges. She stops flicking through his things and drops down onto Kieren’s bed anyway – screwing her nose up at finding a dirty pair of socks strewn across the duvet, which she discreetly knocks onto the floor away from her. Kieren doesn’t know what the fuss is about; he doesn’t sweat. Dirty socks, clean socks - they’re all the same. Nonetheless, he stretches to retrieve them, balls them up, and tosses them towards the laundry basket. He misses.

“So, how’d you like your breakfast, then?” Jem asks.

Kieren shoots her a funny look. “Jem, I don’t eat.”

Jem raises her eyebrows.

“What?”

Jem’s eyes widen. She isn’t going to tell him – rather wiggle her eyebrows ever more emphatically until he catches on.

“Jem, what’re you – wait.” Kieren recalls Simon; remembers him saying, _not my idea._ “You know about Simon’s breakfast. That was your idea?”

Jem sweeps an arm across her waist and ducks down in an exaggerated bow. “He was going around in circles, hadn’t a clue what to do. He got the date off Amy a while ago, met me after school to ask what he should do about it.”

Kieren frowns. “He didn’t need to do anything about it,” he says, confused by the whole thing. “It’s not a big deal, it’s only—” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t think he should go much further with that sentence. He looks away from Jem and instead just repeats, “It’s not a big deal.”

“Well, he wasn’t having any of it, and I said you’d probably be miserable as piss, so I told him maybe try something daft to cheer you up.”

Kieren is touched. He had no idea so much thought had gone into this. Of course he knew that his whole family had been thinking about it for the past few weeks, but he’d thought that it was from the kind of perspective of, _my son/brother killed himself and I’m still getting over the idea that someone I love didn’t want to be alive anymore_ – rather than anything concerned with his feelings.

Jem leans towards him. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Did it work?” Jem presses, with an eye-roll to indicate how completely and utterly hopeless Kieren is on every front, her idiot older brother.

Kieren smiles. “It was nice.”

“You sure? You came back earlier than I expected,” Jem says, and then she adds teasingly, reaching over to pinch the fabric of Kieren’s pyjama bottoms at the knee, “although from the looks of your outfit, I think you went earlier than expected too.”

“Yeah, I left quite early… Thought mum and dad might be worried.” Kieren’s voice drops, and he sees Jem tilt her head. She knows he’s not telling the entire truth. He screws his face up slightly, twists his mouth. “And.” He glances at her, then away towards the window. “And, I dunno, I got… upset.”

Jem makes a soft noise, like a _hmm_ in her throat, and before Kieren knows what’s happening, she gets up and comes to stand behind him at his desk. She places one hand on his shoulder, almost uncertainly, and then she is sure of herself; she bends, puts her arms around his neck, and ducks her head to rest her chin on his shoulder. The angle is slightly awkward, and her weight pulls Kieren lopsided, but it doesn’t matter.

“I didn’t do anything,” Kieren says, moving his hands together in his lap, twisting his fingers. “I just. Left. I suppose I wasn’t very grateful.”

Jem lets out a long breath that rushes past his ear. Kieren is aware that once upon that would have tickled; he would probably have been squirmy at this point just from having her hands so close to his neck. As much as he hated being ticklish while he was alive, the thought saddens him now, and it’s these small, unthought-of consequences of being dead that hurt the most sometimes. He never thought he would miss feeling Jem’s sharp, jabbing fingers in his neck and sides when he wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t let her have the last of the cornflakes or wouldn’t let her watch The X Factor. He reaches up with one hand, curls it around one of hers.

“He knew it was gonna be hard for you, today,” Jem says quietly. “So did I. ‘Course, Mum and dad mean well, but they’re still a bit preoccupied with being scared of your brain, I think. The things it does that they can’t do anything about. But Simon wanted to make this good for you. He didn’t mean to upset you.”

Kieren can feel a thick lump rising in his throat, but he nods. “Yeah, I know.” He jerks his shoulders, trying to play it off as something that he doesn’t mind too much. Like maybe he hadn’t even given it that much thought. As he looks down at his hand where it holds Jem’s, he realises that his pyjama top is short-sleeved, his scars on display. It’s too late now to cover them up without making a big scene, and so he finds himself just looking at them – the loose stitches, the greying flesh, the strike against staying alive on either wrist. He swallows. “I’m just. Not sure it needs to be celebrated, is all.”

Jem tips her head on his shoulder, and Kieren thinks of her pointy chin jabbing into the muscle of his shoulder. It should hurt. It doesn’t. “I don’t think it’s necessarily a celebration, Kier,” Jem says gently, and she squeezes him. “I think it’s just… acceptance. You did what you did, and you had your reasons, and it’s something that’s a part of you, like it or not.” She stands up straight, leaving one hand planted on his shoulder, and she pushes the other forwards through his hair to send it all skew-whiff. “We just didn’t want you to be miserable today.”

With that, she pats her hand on his shoulder, and steps away to nose through his rack of CDs. Kieren turns his head halfway after her absence, gazing blankly into the distance but not really seeing anything. Then, while Jem complains that he’s not updated his music in forever and that he needs to split the cost of the new Underoath album with her, he lifts his eyes and finds himself looking at his latest sketch of Simon – a small, rough and unfinished thing, pushed to the corner of his desk until frustration wore off and he could make another go at the crease of Simon’s brow, the curve of his mouth.

Kieren reaches out, pulls it towards him. There is a dull grey scuff near Simon’s jaw where he rubbed out and rubbed out, unsatisfied with his lines, and it is still speckled with lead dust. It’s a work in progress, but Kieren reckons it’s going to be good when it’s done. It’ll just take time.

 

* * *

 

 

_Simon has been reading for near an hour when he apparently loses interest in his book of poetry. He yawns, gives a stretch, and adjusts himself in his chair – at which point, Kieren becomes quite irritated._

_“No, don’t move!” Kieren complains._

_Startled, Simon looks up at Kieren with wide eyes, but to his credit, he does freeze in place. “What is it?” he says quickly, every inch of his body immobile. “What have I done?”_

_“You are the most fidgety reader I’ve ever seen. Go back to how you were,” Kieren tells him firmly, and he points at him with the sharp end of a pencil, like a threat._

_“What?”_

_“Like you were a second ago – with your foot crossed over the other leg. And your hand—”_

_Simon realises then what exactly is happening, and his eyebrows lift incredulously. “Are you drawing me?”_

_“Not currently,” Kieren says, his tone pointed. Out of habit, he pulls his sketchbook up defensively close to his chest so that Simon can’t see it. Not yet. “You won’t stop fidgeting.”_

_Simon grimaces apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was under observation,” he says, and he sounds genuinely distressed by the thought of having disrupted Kieren’s drawing. “How was I? Like this—?”_

_Kieren leans forwards in his seat to direct him. “Your foot was further along. There, yeah. And stick your elbow back on the arm-rest. No, further to the right. Right. No, your other right.”_

_“Wait, mine or yours?” Simon’s voice falls somewhere between complete confusion and fear._

_Kieren rolls his eyes. “Mine.”_

_Gradually Simon shifts and re-arranges himself, inch by inch, until he’s precisely to Kieren’s satisfaction – and even then he keeps glancing up at Kieren to check that he’s doing alright, he hasn’t changed in some infinitesimal way to throw off the whole sketch._

_“Don’t worry, you’re fine. And I’m nearly finished, just let me…” Kieren trails off, mind already occupied in tracing the lines and contours._

_There is the curl of Simon’s ear, the hinge of his jaw and the hard edge down to his chin. His neck is a long curve, his ridiculous jumper mostly an incomprehensible mess of cross-hatching for now, until Kieren can be bothered to work out the details of the wool and the way the fabric hangs. He falls into focus, caught up in transferring Simon’s solemn features onto paper, the way he was when he was concentrating on Yeats, and so it takes Kieren some minutes to notice that Simon is still watching him._

_“You can go back to reading, if you like, by the way,” Kieren says, as he looks up to find Simon’s eyes fixed on him, unblinking, as though not to miss a single moment, even though Kieren is currently no more than a scrunched-up ball in his chair with his sketchbook on his knees – and he’s been reliably informed by Jem that he pulls some strange faces while he draws, as well. “I do remember what your face looks like, so you don’t have to keep looking at me.”_

_“I want to,” Simon says softly._

_Kieren lifts his eyes from his sketch. Simon gazes back at him, unflinching in his affection, and his expression has a gentleness to it so intimate that it almost embarrasses Kieren. He looks back down at his sketch, frowning as he works through what to do with himself. “Well,” he says, not sure of how to progress with Simon’s honesty, aside from becoming flustered, but so far with Simon he has made an effort to not be completely ridiculous. He ends up saying, “That’s not the position you were originally in, so. You’re not allowed.”_

_“Oh, am I not?” Simon bows his head, and if Kieren didn’t know better, he might think that Simon was making fun of him. “I apologise. I’ll behave myself.”_

_Simon turns his head away, the way he had it when he was reading, and for good show, he even holds his book open. His fingers are still on the page, and his lips aren’t moving with the verses, so Kieren knows that he’s only pretending for his sake, but it is appreciated._

_Kieren traces the line of Simon’s arm, all the way down to the sharp angles of his long fingers on the book’s cover, and he glances up at Simon to find him looking at him out of the corner of his eye._

_“Stop it!” Kieren tells him indignantly._

_“Stop what?”_

_“Stop – that! Stop it.” Kieren sets down his pencil and gives Simon a hard look. “Whatever you’re doing—”_

_Simon’s mouth pulls down at the corners, all innocence and confusion, and Kieren is not falling for it. “I’m not doing anything, Kieren.”_

_“You are, you’re – a terrible model, that’s what you are,” Kieren says, and he gives an exasperated huff through his nose. “You’re dead, you’re not supposed to fidget. And you’re not supposed to be looking at me, either.”_

_Simon turns to face him, then, and he doesn’t say anything, but there is a tilt to his mouth that conveys it perfectly –_ you wound me, Kieren Walker, and I’ve done nothing to you.

 _Kieren raises his eyebrows sharply._ Don’t you dare.

 _“Okay, okay,” Simon says, giving in at last, and his eyes move slowly over Kieren’s face – his eyes, his cheeks, dropping last to his mouth, in a way that Kieren is fairly certain Simon_ knows _makes it difficult for him to continue with whatever he’s doing. Then he turns away, to how he was before. “Forgive me for not being able to take my eyes off you.”_

 _There he goes again, just throwing out words like they’re easy – not like they don’t matter, but more like they mean everything and he isn’t afraid of them. Like he can have a thought in his head, and he can just say it, even if it’s a heavy, terrifying one like_ I’m in love with you _. Kieren, for whom words do not come easily, is equal parts envious of and intimidated by it. He does what he usually does in this scenario, not knowing what else to do with himself; he makes a short noise like a laugh in the back of his throat, as though Simon’s devotion and care is some exaggerated, simple thing that doesn’t mean everything to Kieren, and he pretends otherwise that it didn’t happen._

_“Fine,” he says, shortly, and he won’t look at Simon. He doesn’t feel sure enough of himself not to be in love with him by the time he looks away again. “Just sit still.”_

 

* * *

 

 

At six-forty-five, the streets of Roarton are not even dark yet, but Simon has left on the lamp outside the bungalow’s front door. Its light is soft, orange-tinted, and oddly comforting, even as Kieren can see that it illuminates his skin in a way that makes it stand out more white and uneven. He had a shower after lunch, and he didn’t put his mousse back on afterwards. Self-confidence is something that he falls out of practice with, and he feels today is as good a day as any for it. He runs a hand over his hair, fixes his fringe, pats down the back where contact with his hoodie fluffs it up. He doesn’t let himself in this time; he knocks.

Several moments pass before Simon’s silhouette becomes clear through the glass, and then the door opens.

Kieren watches as a range of emotions flit across his features, seeing him – surprise, concern, something gentle that wriggles underneath Kieren’s skin and makes his throat close up.

“Hi, Simon,” Kieren says.

The corner of Simon’s mouth lifts slightly in the smallest of smiles. “Hello. Are you alright?” Kieren jerks one shoulder in a non-committal kind of gesture, and he comes in. Simon twists to follow him, shutting the door behind him. “What about your family, then?”

Kieren throws him a look. _They’re having a just wonderful day reminiscing about the time I committed suicide_ , the look says, his mouth twisted up into something rueful and sarcastic. He leads the way into Simon’s room.

Simon holds his hands up in surrender and follows. “Okay. What’s going on, then?”

Kieren pauses in the middle of Simon’s room. For a second, he simply looks around, as though he’s expecting to find some assistance there that might make it easier to explain himself. He doesn’t – without the exception of a small stack of well-thumbed books on the table, and the enormous overcoat draped across his chair, there is little here than Simon can lay a claim to. Even Amy’s nan, gone four years now, is more present in the room than he is.

Kieren lets out his breath and turns back to find Simon leaning back against his desk, quiet and patient and watching Kieren intently. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at Kieren and he listens. He waits.

“I just…” Kieren hesitates. He’s not very good with words. He lifts his head, looks Simon in the eyes, and for a second he almost loses himself there, because Simon is just gazing back at him all gentleness and patience, and even with Kieren’s heart stoppered up with sad, heavy things, looking at Simon does feel like coming home. He doesn’t have the words for that, though, so instead he lets his eyes fall to Simon’s mouth, and then he steps forwards, into Simon’s space – sets one hand carefully on the desk top either side of his hips, closing him in – and kisses him.

For a moment, Simon is still – before he snatches in a short breath against Kieren’s lips, opens his mouth to catch Kieren’s. He has his arms pinned at his sides, the way Kieren has placed himself around him, but his hands still come up, one light on the outside edge of Kieren’s thigh, the other with fingers curling into a belt-loop, and he kisses Kieren back, gently, as though he thinks that maybe if he goes slowly enough, the moment can stretch out infinitely.

Kieren tilts forwards onto his toes for better access, leaning into him with his weight on his fingertips on the desk, and he pushes against him – and then he can’t hold it in anymore. He pulls back, takes a deep breath, and in the moment before Simon has even processed that he no longer has Kieren’s mouth on his, Kieren bursts with, “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”

Simon opens his eyes.

Kieren bobs down from his tiptoes, and he looks up into Simon’s face with apprehension. “Sorry,” he says again – for interrupting a good kiss, this time.

However, Simon just gives him that look – that unbearably soft look from under his eyelashes, head bowed, like Kieren is something precious and he can barely look at him head-on. It makes Kieren itchy sometimes, uncomfortable at the incomprehensible level of adoration that Simon directs at him, but today it makes him feel slightly reassured. Simon says, “What for?”

Kieren taps his fingers on the desk top, and his eyes drop to Simon’s mouth without meaning to. “You making me breakfast earlier, it was really… nice,” he says, his tone awkward. He nods his head. “It was. And I just got upset about the whole thing, but it wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have—” Kieren stops, averts his eyes. He scratches the back of his head. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Simon tugs lightly on Kieren’s belt-loops to get his attention, and he lowers his head to catch Kieren’s eyes. “Don’t be.” He lets out a long breath and works his mouth for a second, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Sometimes I forget that you haven’t been back very long,” he admits. “Of course, neither have any of us, but… I don’t know. I just wanted to try and turn today into something that you didn’t need to be afraid of.”

Kieren doesn’t need to tell Simon that he’s not afraid of the day, he’s afraid of himself – Simon understands that better than anyone – but he knows what Simon means. Here, with the comforting touch of Simon’s hands near his hips, with Simon’s soft eyes and gentle mouth, he is not afraid. He looks up at Simon, and he manages a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says. He wants to say that it means a lot to him, that he appreciates the gesture and the thought behind it, but what comes out instead is a teasing smile and, “It was delicious.”

Simon’s face lights up. He leans forwards, his mouth mere centimetres from Kieren’s, and with the huff of a quiet laugh on his lips, he accuses, “You hardly touched your toast.”

Kieren rolls his eyes, doing his best not to be amused by it, especially as Simon butts Kieren’s nose gently with his own. “Yeah, yeah, I’m… watching my weight.”

Simon does laugh at that, a small sound deep in his throat, and he tips his head to press his mouth to Kieren’s. “You’re magnificent,” he says, a mumble against Kieren’s lips, and then he kisses him again.

Kieren inhales deeply through his nose, and he doesn’t answer; he just leans in, kisses back, lifts one hand from the desk to cradle the back of Simon’s head. He is learning to accept compliments. He likes to think that he is getting better at being loved.


End file.
